


Concrete Visuals

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Sherlock Holmes Has No Boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-09-25 03:53:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9801557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: John Watson just wants to mess up his posh boy.





	1. Chapter 1

John twisted the tap like it had personally wronged him. Sherlock. That maddening, infuriating, impossible man. John had been all ready to have a nice lazy Sunday. He had still been in his pyjamas, stomach full of bacon and toast and scrambled eggs, just sitting down to a second cup of tea, when he’d heard Sherlock’s bedroom door open.

“Morning, lazy bones. I left you some breakfast by the sink.” He’d managed to get out the click of the K, but it had been a close thing. Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised. It shouldn’t have affected him at all. He’d seen Sherlock prance around in his sheet plenty. But when he’d swiveled in his chair to see Sherlock at the sink crunching away at a piece of bacon, sheet hanging off his shoulder, swiping a crumb from his bottom lip with his thumb, John’s reaction had been visceral. He only hoped that Sherlock hadn’t seen him snap back into place on his chair and cross his legs.

When he’d heard floorboards creaking behind him, he’d reached for the paper he’d dropped between their chairs, snapping it open and clearing his throat. He’d scanned the headlines, but most of his focus had been on his peripheral vision, tracking Sherlock’s movement across the floor.

“Anything on for today?” John had asked, sure his voice sounded completely normal.

“Experiment.” Sherlock had plucked at his violin strings, adjusting the pitch as he’d shrugged. “Perhaps.”

John had made a noncommittal grunt and gone back to his paper when he’d heard Sherlock play two strings at a time, running across one way and then the other. Seemingly satisfied, he’d stretched the fingers of his left hand, nudged the crook of his thumb under the neck of the instrument, and wrapped his fingers around, the tips hovering above the strings.

Long, nimble fingers.

John had swallowed, read an incomprehensible headline.

“Any requests?” A deep, sonorous voice that John had felt in his spine.

John had shrugged, eyes on the paper. “Nothing in particular.”

At that, Sherlock had let out a long breath, just a hint of a hum underneath, and walked to the window, tapping his fingers against the neck, sending tiny notes plinking through the air. He’d stood there silent but for the musical tap of his fingers, and eventually John had looked up, curious what the hold up was.

And of course London had chosen that day to be sunny, meaning John could see the silhouette of Sherlock’s naked body through the worn cotton of his bedsheet. He could see the sway of Sherlock’s hips as he brought the bow up to the violin, and as Sherlock had started to play, John had felt he could see every note in the movement of his body. Surely, Sherlock had not been aware of just how bright the sun was. He’d stood by that window to play many times, and it was not unusual for him to be in the sheet when he did, but John had never gotten quite so lurid a look as that.

He’d wondered if he should have told Sherlock of the inadvertent view, but just like that, the music stopped, and the spell was broken. John’s cheeks had flared. His throat had dried, and his cock had reminded him of its presence with a drop of fluid on his thigh. Thank God it hadn’t been fully erect yet, but he’d known if one of them didn’t get out of that room, it wouldn’t be that way for long.

John had checked his watch. “I should have a shower before I spend all day in my pyjamas.”

Without another word, he’d hustled to the bathroom, which left him here, stripping of his pyjamas as the bathroom filled with steam. Why couldn’t Sherlock have come out in a suit? Or even pyjamas and a dressing gown? John wasn’t a complete animal. He could go a long time without having intrusive and explicit thoughts about buggering his flatmate, thank you very much, but when he’d been presented with that display? What was he supposed to do?

John stepped under the spray, and while the heat was initially shocking, he hoped it would beat the desire out of him. Barring that, he hoped a quick and quiet wank would leave him in a better state for the rest of the day.

Bracing his hands against the tile underneath the shower head, he let the water beat against his face, drooped his head until it could hit the back of his neck. God, how could Sherlock look so prim and put together wrapped in a sheet? And his curls, sleep mussed and perfectly coifed? His skin pillow creased and alabaster? It was worse than the slim-tailored suits. He was supposed to look pretty and posh in those. He should look messy and mashed fresh out of bed, too lazy to do anything but drag his bedclothes up with him.

God, it just made John want to rip that sheet into a thousand tiny pieces. See how coifed his hair would look with John’s hands pulling at it. How snow-white his skin would be with John’s teeth on it. How proper his posture would be when he was bent over the back of his chair.

John’s left hand left the wall.

How his perfect bum would look with John’s cock sliding between the cheeks.

John toyed with his balls, hips twitching.

How Sherlock’s voice would sound begging, it didn’t matter for what.

_Oh, fuck._ John squeezed a dollop of Sherlock’s conditioner into his palm, the smell kicking off something instinctive and primal in him. He spread it over his palm and wrenched his eyes shut as he thrust into the tunnel of his hand. His right palm pressed against the tile. The water rained on the back of his head and slid down his back, between his legs. He widened his stance, breath hitching through his mouth, and the movement of his facial muscles made the rivulets catch on his lips.

Maybe Sherlock would let John come on his face, or in his hair. Oh, God. In his _hair_. He could just picture it, streaks of white in ebony, rubbing it in, and then washing it out in this very place, Sherlock hazy and content after orgasm, purring like a kitten. Oh how John would love to keep Sherlock on edge until he was desperate, whiny, undone. And then make him come so hard he’d forget his own name.

A creak of a hinge and a scrape of wood against lino made John jerk back from the shower head, blinking water from his eyes as he struggled to focus through the translucent strip of plastic near the top of the shower curtain. He’d locked the bathroom door hadn’t he? He was sure of it, but-- Oh. He’d locked the one from the hallway, but not the one from Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Sherlock!” John wiped condensation from the curtain, glad that in his panic he’d done it with his right hand. “What are you doing?”

“I haven’t urinated since I went to sleep last night. I can’t wait any longer.”

“Ask Mrs. Hudson--”

But Sherlock had already lifted the seat, and John could hear the telltale tinkle of pee on porcelain. John let out an exasperated breath and resigned himself to waiting it out.

When Sherlock’s sheet dropped to the ground.

John pressed his hand to his mouth lest he gasp or groan or make some other embarrassing or revealing noise. Arse, calves, back, neck, shoulders, oh God, waist, hips. That fucking arse. What the fuck was Sherlock doing? Muscles, skin, thighs, shoulder blades, fucking perfect. Dear God, he was pissing, and he still looked like a marble statue.

Sherlock shifted on his feet, and with horror, John realized he was staring. He spun on his heel, ready to pretend the shower head was fascinating, but his eyes caught on the bathroom mirror. Sherlock was watching him in it, gaze intense. John met it, and all he could do was blink. He had no idea what his face must be doing, there were too many thoughts and emotions running through him to keep track, though the most prominent seemed to be, _What the hell?_

Finally, their shared gaze broke when Sherlock flushed the toilet, turned, paused, and then shimmied back into his sheet. Though he’d clearly intended to drop the sheet, and he’d clearly intended for John to see, Sherlock hadn’t said a single word. He put himself together and strode for the door, looking for all the world as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Was that it, then? Were they supposed to have this strange, silent encounter and then… what?

But then Sherlock unlatched the lock to the hallway, drawing John’s gaze. “It’s nothing to be ashamed about, you know?”

John’s jaw waggled until he could finally get out the word, “What?”

“Wanking to the thought of me. Nude. Your imagination is not substantial, so I thought you could use something concrete to work with.”

Sherlock left before John could get out anything more, leaving the door open behind him, and John couldn’t help but make one of his patented Sherlock-is-crazy faces. What was that? Was that supposed to be a come on? What kind of come on included an insult?

A single cough chuckled from John’s throat. Only a come-on from Sherlock would include an insult. But only Sherlock would flash his naked body with the explicit intent of ensuring one’s fantasies were factually accurate. And Sherlock didn’t go in for that sort of thing. So, what was he supposed to do now? Did he finish, knowing that Sherlock knew what he was doing? Did Sherlock expect John to follow him? He did leave the door open.

Even his cock was confused, twitching in a state somewhere between erect and flaccid. He watched it like it would have an answer, but after a lengthy conversation, they were no closer to a solution. The only thing left to do was the impossible: talk to Sherlock.

So, John turned off the water, wrapped a towel around his waist, and with the cold air from the hall steeling his courage, stepped into the hall.

 


	2. Chapter 2

John walked into the sitting room only to find Sherlock flat on his back on the sofa, still swaddled in the sheet, eyes closed, hands folded over his abdomen.

John shivered as the water evaporated from his shoulders. “Sherlock?”

No response. Not even a twitch of an eyebrow.

John grabbed a bare toe. Shook. “Sherlock.”

Still nothing. He was either ensconced in his mind palace or refusing to engage. Either way, John wasn’t about to put up with it. Obviously, it wasn’t a come on. Sherlock was doing his weird Sherlock thing and wanted to ensure the realism of John’s fantasies. Heaven forbid John have unrealistic expectations of Sherlock’s body. Not that anything he’d come up with had compared to the original. Somehow, the smattering of moles and freckles that should have marred the perfection only made it better, gave John constellations to track.

He huffed. Mad at his train of thought and at Sherlock for inducing it. “Fine. I’ll just get dressed, then.”

***

They didn’t talk about it for the rest of the day. When John came down from his room, Sherlock was fully besuited, glued to a stool behind his microscope, focus on nothing else but the slide underneath. And then the next one. And the next. He was still there when John finally went up to bed.

They still hadn’t discussed The Incident by Tuesday, but somehow, their routine had settled into something resembling normalcy. John took a shift at the surgery for the day. He brought home Indian food, and they ate at their desks, watching whatever was on telly. Then Sherlock made a fire, and they settled behind their individual reading material--a novel for John and some sort of magazine for Sherlock. It may have been a scientific journal; it may have been Vogue. John didn’t notice.

But then Sherlock sighed in his dramatic way, just this side of a strop, and slapped the magazine to the floor. John had decided not to pay it any mind--his novel was at an exciting point after all--but Sherlock swiveled in his chair, knees planted on the cushion and torso stretched into the air behind.

John glanced over his book, eyes catching on blue-striped silk stretching over gluteus muscles before returning to the words, which suddenly seemed to be in another language. Had the author lost his mind mid page?

John cleared his throat. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock grunted, torso parallel to the floor, arm stretched out. One knee lifted to rest on the chair arm. “Trying to reach the windowsill. There’s a book I want.”

As Sherlock climbed higher on the chair, grunting, hips arching, John said, “Get up and grab it. You’re going to knock the chair over that way.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock responded, but he stretched himself farther, pulled the fabric of his pyjamas tighter, and the front legs of the chair began to levitate.

John grabbed the arms, shoved them down, and Sherlock rocked back. A breathy “Ah” escaped. His calf brushed John’s forearm.

Sherlock peered over his shoulder, licked his lips. “Thank you.”

John stepped back, surprised at the feel of his own chair behind his knees. “Don’t mention it.”

Sherlock shifted, snapping John’s gaze back to forbidden places. “Come back.”

“Wha--” John croaked. He cleared his throat. “Why?”

“Hold the chair for me.”

John rolled his eyes. “You lazy arse. Go around.”

Sherlock returned the eye roll with less affection, lunging for whatever he wanted on the windowsill. Forcing John to catch the chair once again. Making Sherlock rock back. Forcing that same breathy, obscene noise from his throat. No--John shook his head--not obscene. Just surprised. Even though he should have known it was coming.

He didn’t stop, though, apparently convinced that John wouldn’t let him fall. And damn him, he didn’t. He stayed there, stooped over Sherlock’s chair as he strained to reach. As every visible muscle shifted and flexed under smooth skin. As the covered ones changed the shape of thin cotton and silk. Oh God, the silk. The silk that had been worn so many times as to have become threadbare.

And God, the way his hips tipped and shifted. The little grunts and sighs that sounded downright salacious to John’s ears. Each surge of Sherlock’s shoulders pushed his groin into the chair back, making it creak in a way that sounded far too similar to squeaking bed springs and straining frames. And there John was, stooping over him. Just a slight shift, and he could settle in behind Sherlock, slide his knees in between, curve his torso over Sherlock’s back. Sherlock wouldn’t have to change a single action. If John just slipped his hand between Sherlock’s groin and the cushion, gave him something solid to thrust against.

Sherlock finally grasped a book propped on the sill between two fingers, let out a long satisfied sigh, and sat back on his heels, his shoulders hitting John’s chest. He turned to face John, stubble abrading John’s cheek.

“Thank you for your help,” he purred, and John found himself surprised that it wasn’t followed by a kiss. One that would surely make both their toes curl. Give some point to the shower incident.

But instead, he spun and flopped into his chair, legs spread wide and bracketing John’s knees. His hips shifted forward. “I believe the chair is stable now.”

“Oh.” John stood, glancing about for his book. “Right. I’ll just…”

He pointed to his chair and sat, opened his book, and after scrutinizing the same sentence several times, settled in to read.

***

John might have been able to write it all off. He could have gone on as if nothing had happened. He could have dismissed the naked pissing as an isolated incident, one of Sherlock’s little experiments, a study of John’s reaction to unexpected stimulus. As for Sherlock bending himself over the chair and rocking and grunting like he was god-damned fucking the thing, well, clearly that was just John’s mind interpreting an innocuous act as something obscene.

He could have, if Sherlock hadn’t dirtied all the teacups, mugs, glasses--hell, anything that could hold water. If John hadn’t been standing at the sink for so long as Sherlock fiddled with his microscope.

All he wanted was a cup of tea.

Instead, as the third mug was halfway to the drying rack, Sherlock’s torso molded to John’s back. The mug halted in mid-air, and John spied Sherlock’s half-exposed arm straining to reach the shelf over the sink. He blinked at the back splash. His mind was totally blank. He couldn’t think. All he could hear was static. All he could smell was Sherlock, fresh and invigorating like a brisk spring day in a citrus orchard, lavender and mint growing all around.

Until a flask wobbled on the shelf, until Sherlock wobbled with it, his fingers scrabbling to still it, and he puffed, “Fuck.”

And John’s brain came back online, the rush of adrenaline stilling his hand as he finally placed the mug in the rack and moved on to the next dish. “I’ve been a bad influence.”

Sherlock stepped to John’s side, newly acquired flask spinning in his fingers. “How’s that?”

“The language.”

Sherlock shrugged. “A single expletive uttered in the heat of the moment is hardly indicative of one’s full or functional vocabulary.”

John chuckled, mocking, “‘I know lots of words, John’.”

“Is that supposed to be an impression of me?”

“It is, yeah.”

“Could use some work.” He nudged John with the edge of the flask on his way back to the table to do whatever it is that Sherlocks do.

John washed a few more dishes, letting the quiet of the flat and the rhythmic quality of washing up lull him, so when Sherlock once again appeared at his back, snapping to it like a magnet, John actually yelped.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Flask.”

John scoffed. “Ask me to move.”

“This is quicker.” He pulled the flask down and left again, leaving John like a buoy in the wake of a speedboat.

If John had thought he'd be prepared for the third time, he was wrong. He would have been, had it happened any sooner, but Sherlock waited until John’s left hand was elbow deep, pulling out the plug.

He materialized in place, this time arranged askew so that he was pressed more to John’s side than his back. John huffed, leaning away to grab a towel to dry his hands, when Sherlock spoke.

“My preferred brand of deodorant is Aveda. I’m wearing it now. You may find it familiar as I use the same brand of conditioner, but different body chemistry can affect the aroma. Do you like it?”

“Sure.” John dried his hands for a moment. “What?”

“Smell is primal. It has the strongest connection of all the senses to memory and emotion.”

John had an inkling he knew where this was going, so it was with a healthy dose of trepidation that he asked, “And?”

“If you were to continue masturbating to fantasies of me, you may find the addition of scent useful. My current stick is almost gone. You could have it.”

John winced, staring at Sherlock for signs he might be high. “Are you joking?”

Sherlock blinked for a bit before a twinkle gleamed in his eye, and he smirked.

John tossed the towel aside, shaking his head as he grabbed the kettle. “You cock.”

This time, Sherlock cut off John before he reached the sink, and John had to stop short, Sherlock's side knocking the empty kettle, the arm closer to John stretched high. He grabbed one last flask, flipping it in the air and catching it on his way back to the table, his tongue pushing at the corner of his mouth.

John felt heat buzz across his back, the phantom pressure of a comforting weight. He shook it away and filled the kettle. “Earl grey?”

Sherlock was already at the microscope. “Irish breakfast.”

That night, John found an extra bottle of conditioner in the shower, a stick of deodorant in his bedside table.

***

The next morning, in a feat of athleticism that was only shown when he was running spectacularly late, John sprinted down the stairs from his room, clearing the last three in one leap.

He rifled through the coat rack. “Sherlock, have you seen my brown blazer?”

“Which one?” Sherlock asked from the kitchen.

John checked behind the cushions on the sofa. “Don’t play coy. I’m late.”

“The corduroy one?”

“Yes.”

The silence that followed could have been written by Pinter. “It’s at the cleaner’s.”

John sighed, shoulders stooping, head falling back. “You binned it, didn’t you?”

“No.” Muffled.

John started towards the kitchen. “What did you do?”

Sherlock came into view just as he swallowed what must have been a gargantuan bite of scone as a large hunk was missing from the one in his hand and jam and crumbs trailed from the sides of his mouth like a fu manchu.

John pointed to his own mouth. “You’ve got a little something.”

Sherlock dabbed his tongue at the corners of his lip. “Did I get it?”

“No. Jesus, why don’t you just use a--” John looked about. “Where’s the kitchen roll?”

Sherlock shrugged, tongue venturing a bit further from his mouth, sending a single crumb tumbling down his chin. “How about now?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

John rushed at Sherlock and swiped his thumb over the mess on one side of Sherlock’s lips. He licked the jam off the pad, did the same to the other side.

But before John could pull his hand away, Sherlock snatched it up. Both hands clutched on John’s forearm, Sherlock pounced on John’s thumb. John winced, expecting to feel teeth. Though, why would Sherlock bite him? (Why would he put your finger in his mouth in the first place, a helpful voice supplied.)

Instead of teeth, John got tongue, laving, undulating, probing. He got suction, the kind that sent sympathetic pulses to his cock, made goosebumps rise on his neck, made him shiver. And yes, there was a slight graze of teeth.

But then there were the eyes, stormy and intense, daring John to watch as his thumb slid between those lips. God, those lips. His thumb was centered on the cupid’s bow, making it dip each time John’s thumb moved in. John wanted to flick it with his tongue.

“Christ, Sherlock.” John let his fingers splay over Sherlock’s chin and neck, and Sherlock released his thumb. His fingers squeezed and released on John’s wrist. And again. Sherlock’s breath puffed over John’s thumb, bringing with it the odd sensation of both warmth and cooling. He could smell the tea and jam.

He could still feel Sherlock’s eyes boring into him, but John only had eyes for Sherlock’s mouth, on watching his thumb sweep over his bottom lip. Watching the way it changed shape as he moved. The slight, spreading sheen of saliva.

A warmth spread through John’s body like the first sip of a hot cocoa after coming in from the cold. His skin buzzed with it. Their breaths synced. Time slowed in the space between them, and before he knew it was happening, John was sliding his fingers to Sherlock’s nape, tangling them in his hair, just as soft as John thought it would be.

His head tipped, and he swayed towards Sherlock’s waiting mouth.

Sherlock’s entire body winced with a sharp intake of breath, and John nearly toppled forward. “Now you know what my mouth feels like. You should get to work.”

He shuffled through papers on the table, arranging them into an untidy stack, and John could only gape until he finally managed, “What?”

Sherlock tapped the papers into a pile and strode for the bedroom. “You’re going to be late.”

John shook his head, eyes falling closed. He should have known better.

“It’s all right,” he grumbled to a click of the bedroom door’s latch. “I’ll just go. I don’t need a blazer. No one will care. I’m just a locum anyway, right? Yeah. No problem. And I won’t be puzzling over”--here he yelled--” _what the fuck my flatmate is doing_?”

John grabbed his coat and keys, back to grumbling. “Just fine with flashing me and sucking on my fingers and talking about using smell to enhance the experience when I wank, but he won’t kiss me. That’s just fine.”

He paused at the top of the stairs, shouting, “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

No response. That was fine.


	3. Chapter 3

When John got home from work, Sherlock’s mobile was skittering its way across the kitchen table. No Sherlock to be seen, but the white noise of water hitting various surfaces gave him a clue. John held it still for long enough to peek at the notifications. Twenty missed texts and four missed calls from Lestrade, and as John held the phone, another text came in.

_URGENT_

John’s heart skipped a beat, and in a flash he was at the bathroom door, banging away. A harsh squeak, and the water stopped. John stopped beating the door, but he listened, waiting for the scrape of shower curtain rings, the thwap and thunk of a towel whipped from its bar, and then the lock disengaging.

John was about to step back, but Sherlock was already barrelling through the door. “For God’s sake, what--”

Sherlock ran into John’s startled form, leaving a chest-shaped stamp of water on John’s shirt. His brows furrowed. He peered down the hall. “John. I thought you’d be Mrs. Hudson.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” John stepped back, held out the phone. “Lestrade’s trying to contact you. It’s urgent apparently.”

Sherlock took the phone from John, leaving four damp streaks on the back of John’s hand. John wiped it on his trousers, peeling his shirt away with the other hand.

“Hmm.” Sherlock scrolled through the texts before rattling off one of his own.

“Anything good?”

“Indeed.” Sherlock looked at John like he’d forgotten John was there. He glanced down to John’s waist and back up again. “You should change.”

“Was just going to, thanks.” John tugged the tails of his shirt from his trousers as he turned to go.

“John.”

He pivoted back. “Yes?”

Sherlock's eyes affixed to his chest print on John’s shirt. He chewed at his bottom lip. His fingers toyed with the rolled edge of his towel.

_Oh God, is he going flash me again?_

John watched those fingers toying away and thanks to The Incident had no trouble picturing what lay underneath. His own tongue wetting his bottom lip brought him back to the moment. He’d barely watched a couple seconds. It was fine.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

A flush shone on Sherlock's naked chest, his nipples hard from the cool contrast after the shower. “Hmm? Oh. Wear that blue shirt with the checks. And the wool trousers I gave you for your birthday. I need you looking presentable.”

And with that, he disappeared into the bedroom.

***

It was late when they got home. John hadn't looked at his watch, but he dreaded what it might say. All he knew was that he was starving, exhausted, and too amped up to sleep, which was sure to be a disaster the next morning unless the sick doctor he filled in for that day was miraculously better. He could only hope. Or mix alcohol and antihistamines.

Sherlock shrugged out of his coat at the top of the stairs. “Takeaway?”

John didn't even bother with his jacket. “Fine. I need the loo first.”

“I’ll pick it up.”

John almost paused outside the door in surprise, but his full bladder propelled him through it.

However, barely had his undone the button of his trousers when Sherlock’s voice came through the door. “Curry?”

“Fine,” John called back.

“Indian or Thai?”

“Oh for-- It doesn't matter. Can I piss in peace?”

Sherlock didn't answer, but John took it as an affirmative. And finally-- _finally_ \--he could relieve his bladder. He listened to the thump and mumble of Sherlock pacing around as he ordered food and couldn't help but smile at the comfortable domesticity of it. Sherlock hadn't done or said anything sexual when he literally ran into John outside the bathroom, and the pattern had held throughout the few hours they’d been on the case. Maybe the status quo was restored. Maybe Sherlock was done with whatever experiment he was running.

He almost let himself believe it, but as he was turning to go, he noticed something out of place on the edge of the sink: a bottle of lube. It was the same brand John used--silicone based and therefore both waterproof and condom safe--but it wasn't John’s. John’s was half empty, and this one was nearly full.

In fact--John peeked at the rubbish--the box it came in was crumpled in the bin. Right next to a ripped foil packet. Right next to a condom. There was nothing in it, but it had that frothy sheen about it that said it had been used for something.

John blinked. Those were Sherlock's. Sherlock had done something in here that required a condom. Did he shag someone while John was-- No, it wasn't possible. Besides, it would have… stuff in it.

John stepped out of the bathroom in a bit of a daze, imagining any number of faceless men and women fucking or being fucked by Sherlock. The same day he’d run off because John tried to kiss him.

Sherlock appeared at the end of the hall. “I’m off. I went with Thai.”

“Hold on.” John dashed through the door off the kitchen to head off Sherlock at the top of the stairs. “We need to talk.”

“Full stomachs first.”

John rolled his eyes. “Since when do you care about a full stomach?”

Sherlock slid around him. “I won't be held responsible for what low blood sugar does to you.”

John spun on his heel. “I’d like to make a deduction.”

Sherlock paused.

John panicked. Why did he say that?

Sherlock turned. “Oh?”

“There was-- I found--”

Sherlock brushed past John into the sitting room. “I can see this is going to take awhile.”

John followed, watching Sherlock hang up his coat. “I found something on the sink.”

Sherlock bit his lips as he smoothed his palms down his coat. “I’m not hearing a deduction so far.”

John’s lips tingled. His tongue felt slow. “You’re messy, but you’re not careless.”

“Your point?” Sherlock crossed to his chair and flopped into it, staring into the kitchen.

“Did you want me to see it?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but the way his gaze flitted to John seemed to confirm his suspicions.

“Why?” John croaked. The air felt heavy in his lungs, his limbs leaden. This moment felt important, monumental, but the image of Sherlock flinching away from John kept replaying in John’s head.

Sherlock tapped at the arms of his chair, tugged at the calf of his trousers. “I have faith in your abilities to suss that one out for yourself.”

John scratched the back of his scalp. What else had he seen? “The box was in the bin, so you must have bought it recently.”

“Today,” Sherlock confirmed.

“Okay.” John hazarded a glance at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. “And there was a condom, too.”

Sherlock lifted and lowered his chin.

“Did you shag someone?”

Sherlock’s gaze, firmly on the kitchen up to this point, snapped to John and held there. “Today or ever?”

“Toda-- Either. Both.”

“No.”

John needed to sit down. “I don’t understand.”

Sherlock peered down to watch his own fingers sweep back and forth over his kneecaps. “What don’t you understand?”

“Everything.” Wobbly knees carried John to his chair.

Sherlock pulled his feet under his own chair. “Start with the simplest problem.”

To hell with that. “Have you been coming on to me?”

“I--” Sherlock closed his eyes, tilting his head to rest his temple on his fingertips. “It’s complicated.”

John waited for Sherlock to continue, and there were a couple times it seemed he would, but ultimately he rubbed his hand over his mouth and stared into the empty fireplace grate.

“That’s not a no,” John said.

Sherlock moved his hand just enough to speak. “No. It’s not.”

“But you don’t want to kiss me.”

Sherlock launched himself from his chair, fingers ripping through his hair. He paced. “I don’t know.”

“I still don’t understand. Do you want to have sex without kissing?”

“No!” Sherlock flopped himself onto his back on the sofa, shoes and all, wriggling to fit in the too-small space. He looked like he was trying to crawl out of his skin. “I like the way it feels.”

“What? Sex? I thought you said--”

“For God’s sake, John. Don’t be obtuse.” He writhed some more. “I like… I find that I… enjoy the look on your face.”

John worked out the tension in the fingers of his left hand. “So this is a joke to you.”

Sherlock growled. “No. Why can’t you get this, John? I like the way you look at me, but you’re not gay. I thought it would remain fantasy.”

John barked a laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

Sherlock’s gaze speared into John. “What’s so ridiculous about it? People fantasize about plenty of things they’d never actually do. God knows I’ve fantasized about murdering Mycroft a number of times.”

“All right, skipping over that last part.” John stood and approached the sofa. “If you think I don’t want to realize my fantasies, you’re barking. I’d climb on top of you right now and show you if I didn’t think there’d be a Sherlock-shaped hole in the wall if I did.”

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, but his twitching, twisting mouth betrayed his true feelings. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not.”

“You surprised me. I needed to process.”

“Is that what the bathroom display was about?”

“You were supposed to try again, not engage in all this tedious”--he gestured between them--”conversation.”

“Oh.” John nodded sagely, pressing his lips together to keep from grinning. “See, I missed that.”

“Obviously.”

John leaned over the sofa, bracing both hands on the arm by Sherlock’s head. “Let me fix it for you.”

Sherlock pulled in a quick breath through his nose, pushed his head against the cushion.

“As far as mixed messages go…” John shifted away, but Sherlock fisted both hands in John’s shirt. It would probably bear his hand prints forever.

“Don’t go.”

John wasn’t sure whether he felt more annoyance or affection. Being jerked around like this wasn’t exactly pleasant, but he’d never seen Sherlock so out of his depth. As much as he usually tried to hide himself behind a stony exterior, here he was, exuding vulnerability like a lost puppy. It made John want to wrap Sherlock up and put him in his pocket for safekeeping.

Though he couldn’t help the huff that came out of his mouth, John sat at the edge of the sofa and smoothed Sherlock’s hair from his forehead.

Sherlock’s grip tightened, pulling John’s shirt taut around his back, though Sherlock didn’t pull him any closer. But, he did turn into John’s palm, nuzzling it, hiding his face behind John’s palm.

“That’s unequivocal, at least.”

John sat still, letting Sherlock nose at his fingers, letting him abandon John’s shirt in favor of holding John’s forearm, one finger tracing individual hairs with and against the grain. Letting the fragile silence between them stretch like candy floss. His palm tingled with the rub of stubble, his fingers with the caress of curls. It spread up his arm and over his neck, making his whole body feel slow, like time had stretched or stopped to accommodate them.

He swirled his fingertips over Sherlock’s scalp, and it was as if Sherlock had only just remembered that there was more to John than a hand or a forearm. His eyelids blinked open, and a crinkle appeared above his nose, if just for a moment. His features quickly smoothed over as if he hadn’t just been snuggling with John’s appendages, and John couldn’t help the twitch of an affectionate smile.

With a hum, Sherlock slid his hands down to John’s, tugging John’s index finger away from the rest of his hand and pressing it against his lips until it slipped in. His eyelids fluttered closed again, and he sucked. Wet, velvet heat that washed over John in waves, made his groin ache from the sudden rush of blood. He couldn’t even contemplate how Sherlock could do something so blatantly, maddeningly sexual and yet still flinch away from John’s mouth. He simply didn’t have enough blood in his brain to form any thoughts beyond one single word, echoing like a mantra.

_Want._

John didn’t notice that Sherlock’s eyes were once again on him until he felt Sherlock’s own finger plucking at John’s bottom lip. And then he locked eyes on Sherlock’s, turning the full intensity of his desire on them, and swallowed Sherlock’s finger to the knuckle. He dragged his tongue up, swirled the tip over the whorls of Sherlock’s fingerprints, and dove again with the quirk of an eyebrow.

_Not as ‘not gay’ as you thought I was, am I, genius?_

Sherlock gasped, mouth opening in a rush of cool air around John’s finger, and he pulled John’s hand down to rest on his throat. “I want to watch you masturbate.”

John drew slick serpents over Sherlock’s pulse point as Sherlock’s finger slipped from his mouth. “A bit fast for a man who won’t kiss me.”

“If I kissed you, would you do it?”

John chuckled, kissed the tip of Sherlock’s finger. “It’s not that. Whatever you’re comfortable with is fine.”

“Good.” Sherlock hopped to his feet on the sofa and stepped off behind John. “My bedroom, if you please.”

John stood, stretching out his shoulders and neck. “You sure know how to get a man hot.”

But, in a turn that should surprise no one, Sherlock had already buggered off to his bedroom. With a sigh, John followed.

When John got there Sherlock was already seated in an armchair opposite the door, bare feet perched on the edge. He could never understand how Sherlock was able to contort himself into these positions in suits tailored to within an inch of their lives. He could only imagine what that body could get up to unhindered. Oh. And there was the turn from an awkward situation to a hot one.

“Do you want me on the bed?” John asked with a wry quirk of the eyebrow.

“What? Oh. Yes, bed is fine.”

“Naked?”

Sherlock's tongue swept across his lips as if they were smeared with honey. He swallowed. “Please.”

John sat at the edge of the bed, sliding his socks and shoes underneath. “You look nervous.”

“Keen observation, John.” Sherlock's fingers tapped along his kneecaps.

John worked open the buttons of his shirt. “We can stop anytime you like. You know that, right?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but when John peeled the shirt from his shoulders, all that came out was a gasp. His eyes fastened to John’s scar, and in a move that seemed entirely unintentional, he strode over to John, fingers hovering just above the ridged starburst on John's shoulder. Once there, his gaze wandered to John’s face, the question more obvious than if he had spoken it.

John nodded.

Sherlock's fingers brushed lightly over it at first, but he soon explored with fervor, thumb tracing the edges. “I can't believe I hadn't seen it before.”

John shrugged, a reply attempting to tumble together like puzzle pieces through molasses. The studied, numb pressure on his scar with the careless brush of fingers against his chest sensitized his skin, made it hum. He’d never had his scar touched in a sexual way before, and he wasn't sure he could even call this sexual, but it made him hungry. It made his thighs spread. It knocked him off balance, and he fell to his elbows.

He was meant to be responding to something. What was that?

Sherlock licked his lips, palm sliding across John’s chest to hook over his shoulder, his gaze intense and inscrutable. “May I?”

John couldn't parse the words through the syrupy haze in his mind, but whatever it was he wanted it. Oh God, he wanted it.

“Yes,” he gruffed, voice thick as his thoughts. And when Sherlock's tongue met with the lower edge of John's scar, oh, how glad he was that he said yes. Though Sherlock's attention was entirely on the scar, his late-night stubble rubbed against unmarred skin, and if John thought his skin felt sensitive before, he had no idea.

He imagined his skin turning red, being able to trace the path Sherlock made the next day, maybe even asking Sherlock to rub cream on it so they could recreate the experience. _Oh, God._

John fell back with a groan, pulling Sherlock with. “Yes, do it.”

Sherlock sat up. “This is what works for you, is it?”

“What?” John squinted up at Sherlock, vision hazy with lust. He could smell it coming off himself. He could feel the cooling saliva on his chest raise goosebumps, tighten his nipples. His senses were clogged with it, with Sherlock, and all he could do was complain. “Why did you stop?”

John tugged at Sherlock’s shoulders, hips lifting to drive him forward, when he realized their position. Sherlock’s knees bracketed John’s waist, his arse on John’s upper thighs, tented trousers brushing John’s. John was trapped, and he suddenly wished Sherlock would grab John’s hands from his shoulders and grip them to the mattress. He’d never taken himself as one to enjoy being controlled in the bedroom, but then, what had he been letting Sherlock do outside it all this time? Why did he acquiesce to ridiculous requests like retrieving Sherlock’s phone from his own pocket or fetching objects clearly within his reach or chasing after him regardless of the consequences? He never thought about consequences with Sherlock; he just rode in his wake, relishing the feeling of being wanted, needed, even if that meant sometimes he wanted to pull Sherlock to his knees by the hair, wanted to see him messy and disheveled and wrecked like a human being with urges and desires that have finally been met by the perfect person for the job.

And here, when he thought Sherlock would be a disinterested observer, was the closest he’d ever been. Sherlock’s head was bowed over John’s chest, curls disheveled, the shoulders of his shirt creased with wrinkles from John’s hands. John pawed at them, grabbed new fistfuls of the shirt, tugged it ineffectually from Sherlock’s trousers. And when he gripped Sherlock’s hips, pulled them down to grind against John’s pelvis, Sherlock made the sexiest sound John had ever heard. He couldn’t even be sure that Sherlock realized he’d made the noise; it was so quiet, a grunt over a rush of air.

John thrust again, but then Sherlock’s hands were peeling John’s away. “Wha--”

“Roll over,” Sherlock said, barely able to look John in the eye, and John complied, scooting across the bed until he could get his knees under him.

But when he made to push up on them, Sherlock pressed down on his sacrum.

“On your stomach, please.”

John would have done anything if Sherlock asked in that tone of voice, and he happily slid to his stomach, hands spread on the duvet by his head. A moment later, Sherlock’s weight settled upon him, his clothed cock nestling against John’s cleft, his nose nudging at the entry side of John’s scar. Sherlock’s body rocked with every nudge, and John couldn’t take it anymore; he had to touch himself.

From this position, he could do no more than shove his hands in his pants and give himself something firm to thrust against, but it was enough. He humped his hand mindlessly. Each time his hips pulled back, his arse met with Sherlock’s groin, and his mind flooded with images of the two of them nude, of Sherlock buried inside him, hands just as they were on John’s shoulders. But instead of the gentle clutch of Sherlock’s fingers now, John imagined them pressing down, keeping him pinned for the onslaught, stopping him from bucking like an unbroken horse.

John felt Sherlock’s breath against his shoulder, murmurs slowly coalescing in his ear as orgasm coalesced in his groin.

“Oh, John. That’s lovely. Show me what you like.”

And that did it, with a violent shudder, John came, spilling over his hand and wrist, and it wasn’t until John’s head pressed into the mattress that he realized he’d yanked Sherlock’s hand there. And of course, Sherlock knew exactly what John wanted, even when John apparently didn’t.

When the aftershocks were through and Sherlock lifted his hand, John swallowed, smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth to get his saliva to return. “Do you--” He cleared his throat. “Do you want to come?”

“No.” His nose butted John’s scar. “I’m quite enjoying this. Do you want me to stop?”

“No.” John sighed. “It’s… nice.” And slowly he drifted off to sleep, the soporific of years of wanting satisfied covering him like a heavy blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to CatieBrie for the beta.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to catie-brie for the beta.
> 
> Yes, there is going to be more, because *puts on some Marvin Gaye*. But, I'm currently working on a longer fic that I'm going to prioritize, so I can't make any promises of when it will be updated.


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